


I Can Hear You Thinking

by theshymuffin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Forced Telepathy, M/M, Season 1, Slow Burn, Therapy Writing, but they learn how to play nice, canon consistent, enemies to friends to two idiots in love, remember the good ole days?, the au no one asked for but i just needed to get it out my system, there will be cradling in the arms, they just need some patching up first, when they hated each other basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-10-25 19:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshymuffin/pseuds/theshymuffin
Summary: A band of curious Arusians assaults the Castle of Lions, and in the scuffle, Lance and Keith are trapped in an Altean healing pod. The resulting mental link between them does more damage than repair. . . until it doesn't. Maybe the pods can mend more than broken bones or internal bleeding. Maybe, just maybe, it can heal a damaged relationship long left untreated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so weak for these boys.  
> you can let me know if you'd rather see short chapters or long bc i can swing both ways haha

 

Keith has the loudest glare _ever._ And sure, _maybe_ Lance shouldn't have put food goo in the red paladin's boots, but the only reason they were now stuck cleaning the healing pods is because _someone_ doesn't know how to take a joke. Keith's sense of humor must have died ages ago, along with his sense of style.

Lance sends a hateful look at the cropped jacket abandoned on the floor. “Can you stop with the glaring? It's putting me on edge.”

“And maybe you should just shut up, Lance.”

He stops buffering the glass, something slimy and hot and angrier than Iverson with a toothache swelling in his gut. “Look, it's not _my_ fault.”

“Is that a joke?” Keith asks.

“You tried to push me over the balcony! I could have broken my neck. And who would fly the blue lion then, _huh?”_

“One of the mice would make a better pilot,” Keith mutters. His head snaps back to his work then, gloved hands shining the pod vigorously, as if he hopes a genie will appear so he can wish Lance away.

It's not a terrible idea. In fact, Lance can think of a few wishes he wouldn't mind having granted.

Firstly, that Keith would be magically replaced with a hot chick. Second, that literally _anyone_ else in the galaxy was the pilot of the red lion. Or. . . what Lance would really wish for? That they'd never been sucked into a galactic war and become the pilots of mystical lions in the first place.

He swipes at his eyes before Keith can take notice of the sudden wave of emotion. Not like it really matters, but mullet is pretty much the last person Lance wants knowing how homesick he is.

When he shipped off to the Galaxy Garrison, of course he missed his family. But this is different. There is no SpaceTime calls, no packages filled with seashells and his favorite snacks, no flights back home over winter break. He's stuck. In space.

Lance chucks the grungy rag across the room in a surge of frustration. His aim is either terrible or miraculously good, because it lands with a _slap_ on Keith's shoulder.

“LANCE.”

Keith's wrath is absolved only by the all too familiar alarms that kick in. The blare is the sort of thing sure to give you a headache and Lance almost prefers fending off Keith's weak attempts to insult him to this racket.

“Man.” The taller boy's broad shoulders slump, and he pouts miserably. “Not _another_ drill.”

Allura may be the most beautiful goddess he's laid eyes on, but she makes some of his instructors at the Garrison seem like doting grandmothers.

Without a word, Keith goes back to polishing the inside of a pod, as if nothing had happened. As if he can somehow tune the whole thing out.

Lance gives a lingering glance to the entrance of the room, and a small flicker of worry flares up. What if. . . what if it isn't a false alarm? What if this is like the boy who cried wolf?

Lance hates wolves.

He swallows hard, and forces his steps forward, to where his rag lays wadded on the ground. Not like he'd expect Keith to hand it back. No, that would be much too civil. The red paladin keeps his back pointedly to the other, as if to even acknowledge his presence would be too much effort.

Lance wishes it was mutual.

He takes a quick step back, worried that somehow, if he stands too close Keith might be able to read his thoughts. Because this is really the kind of secret you bury in the middle of the woods at midnight on a starless night. Because there is a miserable, deeply rooted part of him that wishes Keith _would_ look at him.

Rivals? Yes. Hate each other's guts? Check.

But that was never the way it started. Oh boy. Lance tightens his grip on the soggy towel as it becomes an effort to simply breathe. Back at the Garrison, he hadn't teased Keith because of his untidy haircut or fought with him because his scores were always at the top. No. It had been the only way he knew how to cope. To hide what he _really_ thought of Keith.

And mullet hadn't even remembered they were in the same class.

The door opens with a gentle _hiss_ and Lance turns, his eyes lit up because he hopes it's Allura come to kick their butts for ignoring the drill, because it would be really nice to have a distraction, to flirt away any thoughts of grumpy boys with big violet eyes. Though the Princess it is not. Instead, a handful of knee high aliens flood the room. They look a bit amphibious, with curled horns like rams, and simple clothing in gentle earth tones. Their garbled cries punctuate the swinging of wooden swords, and if not for the fierce look in their eyes, Lance would think them harmless, nothing more than farmers.

So not a drill, then.

Keith has his bayard drawn in an instant, the gleam of Altean steel ready to cut them down. Lance trips over his own feet, to step in front, because he can't help but worry the little guys will end up the ones hurt. Whatever has them up in arms, maybe it's the kind of thing better talked out, because he just gets this sense these guys normally wouldn't hurt a tree.

“Lance, what are you doing? Get out of the way.”

“Wait.” The blue paladin holds up a hand, and wavers when he remembers he isn't wearing any armor. “Hey, there. Maybe we can just talk this out calmly?”

“AAAAAHHH.”

It's not the response he'd hoped for.

Three of them jump at Lance, clinging to his legs, and his arm. The force sends him hurtling back into Keith. Thankfully he reacts in time to morph the sword back to its form as a bayard. That's the silver lining, not getting impaled. But the two paladins trip backwards, right into the healing pod. Before either can untangle their limbs, the pod closes.

“NO.” Lance pounds his fists against the transparent field, but it has no give. They're trapped. “Let us out!”

In his frantic squirming to get free, he knocks an elbow into Keith's jaw. “Lance, cut it out.”

“HOORAAAH.” The little warriors do a little dance in a circle around the pod. “ _HOOO_ RAAH.”

It finally registers that they're not getting out of this, and Lance quiets, one hand still pressed to the glass. The other is caught between Keith's shoulder and the back of the pod. A pod that was intended to house a _single_ person. Not two.

Their rapid breaths are loud against the echo of the small chamber, and Lance squirms again, this time because he's pressed between glass and a very stormy looking Keith. Their limbs are tangled, bodies like sardines in a tin. And no matter how much he wishes, there is no genie to undo this.

“Oh no. . . _oh heck no.”_

“Lance, please hold still.”

“I can't. . . can't breathe.”

This isn't a healing pod. It's a freaking _coffin_ and Lance is going to die here. Worst of all? His last moments are going to be shared with his arch enemy. And while the logical part of his brain tells him it's simply an alien drug enticing him to sleep, the dark fog that overtakes him feels more like the chilling hand of death.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a gold star to all you kind souls that have waited patiently. . . i'm back with another installment! hope you find it worth the read. ★★★

“So what do we do with them?”

The one called Hunk asks a good question. Coran inspects the buggers that broke into the Castle of Lions with a twist of his mustache. It took a good while to round them up, and now they sit in a cell with a transparent front, pacing back and forth like vrillian ants.

“We shall return them to their village,” Allura supplies. “While their behavior is troubling, they caused no harm. We shall leave any further repercussions to the discretion of their own leadership. If this is a result of Arusian unrest I'm sure Coran and I can sit down with them and discuss the matter to reach a peaceful solution.”

“Uh. . .” The smallest one shifts the spectacles on their face, something a bit like worry tensing their voice. “Has anyone seen Lance? Or Keith?”

Coran quickly counts the humans off, and sure enough, numbers four and three are unaccounted for. In fact, he's not seen either since earlier that day, when the black paladin assigned them to scrub down the pods as punishment for poor behavior and hot tempers. “Oh dear,” he says. “Let's hope the Arusians haven't offered them as a sacrifice to please their gods.”

“A. . . sacrifice?” Hunk swallows.

“I'm sure they're just. . . uh.” Shiro scratches his head. “Well. Pidge?”

They sigh. “I'll pull up the Castle's surveillance.”

As still hallways and snippets from the scuffle the Arusians caused wind past, Coran tells the paladins to prepare themselves for the worst. But the cameras show that no one had been anywhere near the trash incinerator that day, let alone that a ceremony was performed there.

No. No, what they find instead is _much_ stranger. The clever one plays back footage and finds them (surprise!) just where they are supposed to be. What no one expected to find, is that the two appear to be in deep stasis. . . in the _same pod._

“Well I must say,” Coran begins, “this is entirely against protocol. Did they not read the instruction manual before use?”

“I'm not sure Lance has ever read a manual for anything ever,” Hunk supplies.

The smallest gives a snort, as they zoom the current image in closer. “I'm surprised they both fit.”

Shiro simply sighs heavily.

Allura however, is livid. “What incompetence.” Her hands perch at the hip of her royal gown, and the rest of the group tenses, waiting for what will come next. “They are expected to fight the Galra, and yet cannot handle a couple of Arusians? These locals are simply agronomists, not soldiers! How could they let this happen?”

Shiro sighs again.

Coran starts for the door. “Hold on, I'll have them awake in a few ticks.”

“So they'll be OK?” Hunk asks.

“As long as they're properly brought out of stasis, I don't think the two will suffer more than a migraine.”

“And well deserved, at that.” The Princess exhales through her nostrils, and turns on her heel to exit. The teardrop sleeves of her gown billow, and her snowy locks sway from the momentum. Coran wouldn't fault her for spending the rest of the day in the Castle's Spa. Though a part of him can guess where she will go. Communing among the juniberries, an illusion though they may be, has always done great strides in calming her.

The young paladins turn to him expectantly. This time _he_ sighs. His mustache is getting put through the wringer today, with all this excitement. Their temporary prisoners are forgotten, least for the moment as they all embark to the medical wing, to take in the spectacle of numbers four and three crammed into a healing pod. This is certainly the most peaceful either has ever looked in the presence of the other. Though it's a bit discouraging they had to be unconscious in order to halt their bickering.

After all, these humans are their only hopes to stopping the advance of the Empire.

“Hold up.” Pidge snaps a photograph of the two in their present situation, and snickers. “Alright, you can wake them up now.”

Coran steps up to the glow of the control panel, and gives his knuckles a good crack before he slides a hand across the instrument. He grows sober as he looks over the readings that come from the pod. Two strong heartbeats, in perfect sync. He wishes Allura were here to see. That she could see these children from Earth aren't quite as different from them as she pretends.

The two boys are packed in so tightly, that when the pod opens, it takes a moment for their body weights to tip forward. Shiro and Hunk are quick to rush over, but not before Keith and Lance end up in a slumped pile. Pidge simply taps record on their device, lips curled in satisfied mischief.

Keith is cognizant enough to attempt to break the fall with numb hands. But the added weight of the taller boy inevitably drives him to the seamless tile. Hunk takes hold of Lance by the shoulders and hauls him off the other, so Shiro can reach for Keith's hand to help him onto shaky feet.

“Don't worry,” Coran says. “The tingly feeling will fade shortly.”

“What. . . what happened?” Keith rubs at his temples, undoubtedly because of the headache.

While no real harm has been done, he's lucky to escape with just a sore noggin. The pods are quite the delicate instrument, after all. Designed to restore damaged cells and wounds, internal or external. Designed to hold a _single occupant._ Though it seems Allura hasn't suffered from sharing one with the mice all those deca phoebs. Except for. . .

Coran's eyes widen, as he takes in the recovering paladins, but chooses to keep this particular observation to himself. If it isn't in fact true, it will cause unneeded conflict, between two who hardly seem to stand being in the same room as each other, let alone able to gracefully handle. . . a connection of that sort.

He hopes to Grogory it isn't true, if only for the sake of the team. They need this to work. Need _them_ to work. For better or perhaps for worse, these are the paladins the lions chose.

★

The lowlights rise as his eyes drift open. A muted blue that wraps around him, as his heart rate picks up. The castle is clever enough to know how much light is needed, whether the occupant of the room is asleep or not. Just enough to reveal general shapes, and the outline of the door. Violet eyes blink straight up at the paneling above his bunk. He is _very_ much awake, though there doesn't seem to be a reason as to why. But as what can only be hours stretch on, he still does not know. Why. _Why. Why?_

He rolls abruptly, hand clenched around the silky altean sheet, and wraps himself up tight, as if the burrito trick will lull him back to the beautiful land of rest. His shoulder digs into the mattress, and his dark fringe falls over his face. Nostrils flare, as he breathes heavily.

The ache in his chest only grows. At first, it was faint enough his conscious mind could ignore it. But soon enough, it is all he feels. Something hollow, something corrosive. Eating at any and all shred of comfort he has. Like he does not belong here. As if he is mere dust in the cosmos, drifting and alone.

In the twilight, his hand crawls under his pillow, until he feels the icy touch of a blade. The grip is familiar, solid. Like a tether that keeps him from floating away. And finally, he understands that this feeling has a name.

Homesick.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The blue drink is as bitter as coffee, with a smoky sort of after taste. This early, Keith is much too sleepy to feel conflicted about the alien cup of joe, and simply downs it, thankful that it seems to bring him more awake.

Near the end of the table, Lance stabs at his food goo, and looks every bit as rough as Keith feels. It seems neither one had a restful night.

Lance is well enough to make eyes at the Princess when she enters the dining hall, though. His lips curl to show off white teeth and eyebrows quirk just so. Keith can't help but roll tired eyes, and knows it's the type of thing the blue paladin has practiced in the mirror.

“Good morning, Beautiful.”

“. . . Lonce.” She may be beautiful, in a queenly sort of way, but soft and sunny she is not. “I ask you refrain from further embarrassing yourself.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Keith snorts. Like _that_ will get him any where. But somehow Lance does manage to keep his mouth shut as Allura pours herself a cup of space juice.

_Her hair is like clouds._

Keith lifts an eyebrow, caught off guard by the random thought. _I mean, yeah. It sort of does._ Huh.

_And her eyes hold the beauty of the sea._

What the heck?

He pauses, mug midair. A glance across the table reveals Lance, who gazes dreamily at the Altean.

_Her lips. . . soft as–_

“Do you mind?” Keith interrupts, and rather loudly.

Lance turns to him, as does the Princess. “What?” they question together.

He mutters into his cup, cheeks warming at his own outburst. “Your. . . ogling is loud.”

“My _what?”_

“I just.”

Just what? Heard Lance daydreaming about Allura? Why? And how? Maybe he really hasn't woken up yet. Keith stares long and hard into the obviously not coffee, and wonders if it's causing him to hallucinate.

Allura takes a delicate sip, then gives the two seated at the table a dry look. “Is there a problem?”

 

★

After a long, hard day of training, the paladins often gather to play some table games. Sure, they may not know the rules for these Altean games, and most seem pretty weird to begin with, but strangely this only increases what Lance likes to call “the fun factor”.

The three youngest have sat at the table in the common room, while Shiro opts to lounge on the circular couch to read quietly. And Keith? He stands in the doorway, arms crossed. Even has the audacity to shoot a dirty look Lance's way.

Ever since breakfast, he's been. . . grumpier than usual. If that's even possible.

Lance has no idea why.

But of course, this is Keith. There's no doubt, if he were one of Snow White's seven dwarves, like from that ancient fairy tale, he'd be the one actually _named_ Grumpy. For good reason too.

“Hey uh, Keith?” Hunk speaks up from his spot at the table. “You gonna play?”

“Don't bother.” Lance scoffs. His focus is now entirely, and purposefully on unboxing the colorful game pieces, and not on Keith. Because he _never_ plays with them. Ever. “I'm sure he'd much rather practice swinging his sword around until he drowns in his own sweat.”

While the statement sounds true enough, and causes a tense hush to fall over the rest of the room, it spurs Keith to step closer.

“Actually.” His hands drop to his sides. “I think I will.”

And just like that, he takes a seat next to the yellow paladin. This happens to be directly across the table from Lance, whose jaw has dropped a couple inches. Keith's shadowy eyes snap right to him, smug. Knowing. He _knows_ by doing this he's proving Lance wrong.

The nerve.

Convenient, they're about to enter into a game. Lance will demolish him at it in vengeance.

“So what are we playing, exactly?” Keith asks.

Even Hunk seems thrown for a loop. Yet he offers a kind smile, pleased with this turn of events. “Well we uh, don't actually know.”

Pidge looks up from where they've been hiding behind a sheet of directions, in a language very obviously not of any human script. “The game is Altean. . . so we make up our own rules.”

Hunk begins the task of shuffling and dealing the included deck of rainbow cards. “Hey! Even number! We can do something with teams this time.”

Pidge vaults halfway across the table, as their arms are too short to reach, to give him a high five. “Team Punk!”

“ _What?”_ Lance's mouth drops yet again. “No, no, _no_! I don't think so.” When he turns his head to shoot a glare a Keith, he is already looking back. Lance falters, then draws his brows deeper and his lips tighter. “I'd rather play by myself than with–”

“Lance.” Keith lifts an eyebrow, otherwise unfazed. “Get over yourself.”

Pidge snickers.

Funny how they're in a giant freaking space Castle and still it doesn't feel quite big enough for the both of them. He bristles, as Pidge and Keith trade places, because apparently being on the same team isn't bad enough, they must sit next to each other too. A careless elbow bumps into him, and a vivid memory brushes against his consciousness. Forced proximity, trapped in that pod. Some of his headache from yesterday still lingers, but spikes at the contact. He remembers how pale, slender hands caught on his shirt, and the warm breath that fanned against his collarbone, and their clumsy knees that bumped together.

A nightmare. . . or a dream.

Keith chokes.

Lance gives him another glare, only to find a dusting of red across his teammates cheeks. His own head throbs painfully, with the echo of a thought.

_A dream?_

“Alright!” Hunk chimes, and slaps down the final card of the deck. The piles slide easily against the table top as he nudges them in the direction of the other players. “You guys ready to lose?”

Strangely, Lance feels a sense of loss already. Though it has nothing to do with the game. . . and before he can find exactly what the cause is, it flitters away, back to the shadows it came from.

 


End file.
